Love on the Brain by Ali Hazelwood

            He reaches over to take my hand, his skin warm and rough against mine. He smiles back. Just a little.

            “You could rip me to shreds, Bee.”

            We are silent for the rest of the drive.



* * *



            • • •

            SCHRÖDINGER BURROWED INTO my backpack, tore a package of kale chips, decided they were not to his liking, and went for a nap with his head pillowed on the half-empty bag. I burst into laughter and forbid Levi to wake him up before I can take a million pictures to send Reike. It’s the best thing to happen all day—a reminder that while Levi’s actual family might suck balls, his chosen one is the best.

            “I’m very impressed,” I coo to Schrödinger while petting his fur.

            “Don’t cuddle him, or he’ll feel rewarded,” Levi warns me.

            “Are you feeling rewarded, kitty?”

            Schrödinger purrs. Levi sighs.

            “Whatever Bee’s doing, do not experience it as cuddles. Those are punishment pets,” he says in what he probably means as a firm tone but is instead adorably helpless, and I get another pang, to my heart and my ovaries. I do hope he’ll have kids. He’d be an amazing dad.

            “Those chips were on my desk for days and Félicette never managed to open them.”

            “And that’s not at all because Félicette doesn’t exist,” Levi yells from the kitchen.

            “You should teach Félicette your ways,” I whisper to Schrödinger, and then join Levi in the kitchen just in time to see him throw away what’s left of my unjustifiably overpriced Whole Foods chips.

            “Are you still hungry? Should I make you food?”

            I shake my head.

            “You sure? I don’t mind making—”

            He falls silent as I fall to my knees. His eyes widen as my smile does.

            “Bee,” he says. Though he doesn’t quite say it. He mouths it breathlessly, like he often does when I touch him. And now my fingers are on his belt, which qualifies as touching. Right? “Bee,” he repeats, a little guttural this time.

            “I said I’d do stuff,” I tell him with a smile. The clink of his belt buckle bounces off the kitchen appliances. His fingers weave into my hair.

            “I figured you meant . . . watching sports with me. Or another of your burnt—ah—stir-fries.”

            I take him out of his boxers and wrap my small hand around him. He’s completely hard already. Huge. Shockingly warm against my flesh. He smells like soap and himself, and I want to bottle his delicious scent and bring it with me always. “I’m not very good at stir-fries.” My breath is on his skin, making his cock twitch. “This, I hope I can do well.”

            I’m not exactly confident, and maybe I’m a little clumsy, too, but when I softly lick the head there is a quiet, surprised groan coming from above me, and I think that maybe I’ll be fine. I close my lips around him, feel Levi’s hands tighten on my scalp, and my insecurities melt.

            I don’t know why we haven’t done this before. It has to do, perhaps, with how impatient he usually is, impatient to be in me, on me, with me. There is often an undercurrent of haste with us, like we both want, need, deserve to be as close as physically possible, as quickly as physically possible, and . . . It doesn’t leave much time for delays, I guess.

            Levi wants it, though. It might not be something he’d ever ask for, but I can see the shape of pleasure on his face, hear his intakes of breath. I suckle right beneath the head and he lets out a sound of shocked, overwhelming pleasure. Then he threads his fingers through my hair and starts guiding me. He’s too thick for me to do much, but I try to relax, to let myself enjoy this, lose myself to the taste, the fullness, his soft, deep groans as he tells me how good it feels, how much he loves my mouth, how much he loves this, how much he loves . . .

            “Fuck.” Softly, with his thumb, he traces the bulge of his cock through the skin of my cheek. My lips, stretched obscenely around him. “You really are everything I’ve ever wanted,” he mutters, gentle, reverent, hoarse, and then he’s angling me again, this time a rhythm that’s deeper, purposeful, working my jaw for his pleasure. When he holds me close and says, “I’m going to come in your mouth,” like it’s inevitable, like we both need this too badly to stop, I whimper around his flesh from how much I want this for him.